


La Belle Cafe

by laurenkinn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurenkinn/pseuds/laurenkinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean embarrasses himself by ordering coffee in a French cafe in the wrong language.  Cas, a total stranger, overhears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Belle Cafe

Dean steps into the small corner café around noon on his first day in France with every intention of just ordering a coffee and slice of pie. The jet lag? Terrible. The sensory overload? Painful, to say the least. After a lengthy argument with the hotel receptionist (mostly in stilted French that he remembered from high school), Dean found himself in a gorgeous bedroom with a king-sized bed sporting silk sheets. As much as he wanted to pass out in that cocoon, he knew he should probably wait until it was actually nighttime. Which brought him here. “La Belle Café.” How original. 

“Salut!” the barista proclaims cheerfully, meeting Dean’s eyes and smiling. She’s pretty, Dean thinks tiredly. He can feel his insides twist a little in anticipation of maybe finding a French girl to hook up with, but the feeling is halfhearted and short-lived.

  “Uhh…bonjour,” Dean replies skeptically. Stepping up to the counter, he looks up at the menu and balks. _Everything is in French_. Why this comes as some surprise, Dean is really unsure. He is in France. The barista stares at him, and Dean knows she’s probably realizing that he’s a foreigner. Still, determined to figure this out on his own, Dean plows forward awkwardly. “Uh, could I get a coffee- café, s’il vous plait,” he stutters out, “and…uh…pie?” 

“Je ne parle pas Anglais,” the barista responds to his order, shaking her head and smiling. Dean stares at her, confused. Did she get the order? He mentally skims through the little French he can recall and at least realizes that she has said “English.” Dean figures she has just told him that she doesn’t speak his language.  

“Je ne parle pas Francais?” Dean says back to the girl, phrasing it as more of a question. The barista nods, then turns around and awkwardly signals to another girl behind her who is currently making something that smells delicious. Dean gives a small wave. 

“Il ne parle pas Francais,” the first barista explains to the other. The second shrugs and makes a face like she does not know what she is supposed to do about it. Dean watches as the girls whisper back and forth to each other, becoming more irritated by the second. Seriously, all he wants is _pie_. Finally, the first barista comes back to him and fires something off in fast French, putting her hands up in a helpless gesture. Dean puts his hands up in his own gesture of defeat and walks over to a table in the corner, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. For a few moments, he agonizes internally over his decision to even come to this godforsaken country, then notices another customer sitting in the corner opposite him, who is currently staring at Dean while holding a phone up to his ear. Dean looks away quickly, but trains his ears to the conversation the other man is having. 

“…don’t think he speaks French, like, at all,” the man is saying, trying his best to be quiet. Dean feels his heart skip a beat, firstly because this guy is telling someone else about the poor bastard who just tried to order pie in English in a _French_ café, and secondly because _this guy speaks English_. 

Without really realizing what he’s doing until it’s too late, Dean walks over to the other man (who is currently in a hurry to hang the phone up) and sits down in the chair opposite him.  

“Uh, hello,” the other man says, and Dean meets the most gorgeous pair of big blue eyes he’s ever seen. His heart gives an interested little jump, which Dean ignores mostly. Instead he settles on saying the most desperate thing he can think of. 

“Please, for the love of God, help. You’re the only one here who speaks English,” he begs, then blushes and looks down at his hands. The other man stares at him silently for a few seconds then chuckles warmly. The sound has Dean instantly raising his head to take a closer look at this guy, because _wow_ , what a laugh. 

“I’m sorry, I’m pretty sure I was speaking a little too loudly on the phone,” the man apologizes, smiling at Dean. “My sister told me to keep in touch while I was here, and she loves hearing my stories about non-French speaking people trying to communicate in English. I’m sorry.” Despite himself, Dean can feel a grin coming on. 

“It’s fine,” he says honestly, not feeling miffed in the slightest. “I did overhear you, but that’s fine. You’re American?” 

“Yeah,” the guy says. “Kansas born and raised.” He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, watching Dean over the top of the cup. 

“Kansas! That’s where I’m from,” Dean replies incredulously. “What are the odds?” 

“Pretty slim, I would imagine. My name is Cas, by the way.” 

Cas. Dean processes this name internally, unsure why he feels the need to. It seems…fitting, somehow. “Well, Cas,” Dean starts, “I’m Dean. And I would love to buy you a cup of coffee, maybe talk about home.” 

Cas laughs, and again Dean finds himself strangely drawn to the sound of it. It’s comforting and sexy all at the same time. “Yeah, if only you could order it for me,” Cas jabs playfully. Dean blushes furiously. 

“I guess there’s a little bit of a design flaw in my plan,” he admits, looking back at his hands for yet another time. Cas stands, stretches, and Dean catches just the barest glimpse of a tight midriff before it’s covered back up by the button-down shirt. He walks up to the counter, and Dean notices the confidence in the other man’s step. A few words of French are murmured to the barista, and Cas is walking back to Dean. 

“I ordered two coffees to-go, and also your pie,” he announces, gathering his coat. Dean stalls, suddenly nervous as hell. 

“Uh, th- thank you,” he stutters. “I just, I don’t know where we would go from here?” 

“Dean,” Cas silences him, smiling brilliantly. “Just go with it.”


End file.
